Bet
by The Black Sun's Daughter
Summary: Connor isn't as pathetic as the SF's think he is, which they discover very quickly.


For the past several months, they'd been going to the pub after work. They had become known as regulars, seeing as this particular pub was within walking distance from the ARC and was easily reached after a tiring day of dinosaur chasing and anomaly watching. Ryan liked it: the beer was good and there was always a football match on the telly. Stephen liked it: there was always plenty of pretty birds and even a few good-looking blokes about. Connor liked it: there were people he knew and liked there, who wouldn't tell him to piss off. The three men were, miraculously, inexplicably, somehow mates. Unlikely and unusual mates, but still mates. Between them, they'd come up with a game of doing shots and then attempting to name creatures from Connor's database; by the end of the night, all three would be giggling drunk and slurring dinosaur names.

Some nights, though, weren't all that great. A new team of soldiers had been rotated in, and Ryan had his work cut out for him, trying to convince a set of overconfident rookies fresh from Sandhurst that yes, there really were dinosaurs, and yes, they really would eat people. Stephen had to put up with the usual taunts, having the piss taken about being a pretty boy that'd shag anything on two legs if it stood still long enough. Once he'd put six consecutive shots through the ten-ring on a target, though, they'd quieted down some.

Connor had it worst of all, though. He might have been taller than some, but he was still slight as a beanpole, wiry and pale. Ryan and Stephen knew that despite outwards appearances, Connor was far tougher than he looked; the real challenge was proving it to the rest of the lads. They took the piss out of him worse than anyone else, constant jeers about how he was only good for tech stuff, how he couldn't get a girl like Abby if he was the last bloke on earth, how he couldn't hit the broad side of a barn door with a shotgun full of birdshot.

They were sitting at the bar, each nursing a pint and shrugging off the aches of the day when one of the new lads walked up to Connor. He was a big bloke, taller than both Ryan and Stephen, with blond hair cut short and green eyes always glinting with something like mischief and something like warning, as though daring someone to fight him. "Oi, Temple," he said loudly, leaning against the counter beside the nerd.

"What?" Connor muttered, not looking up from his pint.

"The lads and I have a bit of a bet going, maybe you can help us out." The soldier - Ryan was shite with names, especially once he got a few in him - jerked a thumb over his shoulder to the nearby table, which held four other new faces. "See, we're betting that you...are still a virgin. I mean, Lou and Mercy doubt it, but Otho, Don, and me, we think that you are. I mean, I can't think of any bird that'd want to touch _you_ unless she was paid first." He kept his voice loud, meant to carry, and a round of sniggers burst out from the table, and from several other booths as well; most of the new squad was at the pub tonight.

Ryan gritted his teeth. "That's enough," he ground out.

"Aw, c'mon, boss, we're just askin' geek boy here a question, that's all," said the soldier. Smythe, that was his name, Lieutenant Jake Smythe. He clapped one large, solid hand on Connor's shoulder. "So, what's the verdict, eh? You ever got any without having to take out a tenner first?"

Stephen's fists curled white-knuckle tight, his breathing tight controlled. He was about three seconds away from shooting someone.

Connor looked up at Smythe; sitting down, he was head and shoulders shorter than the blond man. "I hate to disappoint you, Lieutenant," he said, his voice surprisingly calm and level, "but my personal life is no business of yours or your mates, so I'm afraid your little bet will have to go answered." Smythe's mouth opened, but Connor overrode him. "However, since you are a betting man, I have a proposition for you now."

"Oh, do you?" The soldier sounded amused, taking his hand from Connor's shoulder to cross both arms over his chest.

"I do." Connor slid off the barstool to his feet, but even standing, Smythe was still a head taller than him. "I'll bet you - " He reached in his wallet and pulled out a twenty-pound note, holding it up between two fingers. " - twenty quid."

"That's it?" Smythe sneered.

"No, you didn't let me finish. Twenty quid, and the agreement that if I win, you lot have to keep your bloody mouths shut. No more taking the piss about me," Connor finished. The rest of the pub was watching them now, curious.

"And if I win?" the soldier demanded, looming a little closer to Connor.

"Then you can say whatever the hell you'd like. Deal?"

Smythe nodded. "Deal. What's the bet, then?"

"I was getting to that. Since I know that you have no respect for my academics, I'll put the ball in your court, yeah? Twenty quid says that I can knock you out," said Connor.

There was an uproar of laughter from every table in earshot, and Smythe burst out laughing as well, one hand on the bartop to steady himself. "Oh, goddamn, Temple, that has got to be the funniest damn thing I have ever heard. _You're_ gonna knock _me_ out? _You?_ From what I hear, you couldn't hit water if you fell out of a fucking _boat_ , and you're gonna knock me out?" he laughed, barely able to straighten up.

"You said you'd take the bet," Connor reminded, still calm.

"Y'know, I did. I did, and it'll never be said that I'm not a man of my word," Smythe replied, managing to muffle his glee enough to stand up straight. "So go on, Temple. Show us how it's done. Give me your best - "

He didn't get any further than that, because Connor's left fist snapped out with the speed of a striking snake, landing square on Smythe's jaw. He hadn't been aiming for the man's face, but rather a point _inside_ his face. Smythe staggered backwards, arms flailing weakly as though attempting to punch back, and fell over with a crash, landing flat on his back, out cold. Utter silence fell in the pub, the only sound being the sputtering cough that came from Smythe as he spat out a mouthful of blood and something else that wasn't blood. Connor stepped over the prone figure to pick it up: a tooth, broken off at the root, smeared in blood. "I win," he said, addressing Smythe even though the soldier was past hearing him. Connor plucked his twenty quid off the counter and tucked it back in his wallet; the broken tooth he slipped in the breast pocket of his waistcoat. "See you tomorrow, Stephen. Ryan," he bid farewell, taking his jacket on the way out the door.

Tracker and captain looked at the form of Smythe, still sprawled out on the floor with blood dribbling from his mouth. "Should've known the kid was good with his hands," remarked Ryan casually. "I mean, considering all those little pieces he puts together in those machines of his."

Stephen nodded thoughtfully. "Quite so." Glancing over at the four other soldiers, still gaping with open mouths, he addressed them, "You lot might wanna scrape him up and get him to casualty. He'll feel that missing tooth when he wakes up." As the four men hastily stood and starting hauling Smythe's dead weight out to the truck, Stephen looked back over at Ryan. "You gonna tell Lester about this?"

"Hmm? What's to tell? Some bloke just hit the lieutenant and ran off. Never got a good look at his face," answered Ryan blandly. "Think he was ginger, though."

"And had a tattoo," Stephen added just as mildly.

For a moment, they merely gazed at each other, then both smirked and clinked glasses.


End file.
